


Born of a Burial

by stilitana



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, F/F, Gen, Missing Scene, Recovery, Season/Series 04, Slice of Life, Trauma, or my best attempt at canon compliance anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22259389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilitana/pseuds/stilitana
Summary: Daisy is reborn, daughter of a coffin.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 16
Kudos: 130





	Born of a Burial

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear reader. This fic was inspired by my need to imagine what happened after Jon took Daisy up on going out for drinks in MAG 136 and grew from there. I'll admit, I didn't think much of Daisy until Entombed, but since then I've found her such a compelling character. Her relationships, especially with Jon and Basira, are so interesting, so I wanted to fill in a few scenes I imagine might have occurred around her time in the buried.
> 
> As always, comments and critique are very appreciated! Feel free to find me on tumblr @[stilitana](https://stilitana.tumblr.com/). Also, I am from the U.S., so I apologize for the inevitable shortcomings as far as approximating a fully accurate sense of place goes. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading.

> "How can I teach her / some way of being human / that won't destroy her"
> 
> -Margaret Atwood, _Two-Headed_ _Poems_

Nothing was anything and then she was in a place where there was no light and never would be again. It would not let her forget that there was once light, and this was the true suffocation – to know what had been lost and be unable to hope of regaining it. Unable to hope for anything. There was no up or down, only pressure from all sides. Her blood and breath dragging themselves through her coffin-body like heavy-bellied beasts, panting, broken legged. She could not cry. She could not hope. Buried in the darkness, she found herself, a girl she had once been and would never be again, so many selves left behind. And better for it. What had she done for the world? Bloodied its face. Spat and clawed and kicked. Hadn’t always been that way – or was the hunt in her nature all along, from the first, inevitable? There was no hope. 

And then there was. And then there was a voice. (There were so many voices, but none of them stayed or drew nearer, only faded into the rumbling of the great earthen tomb.) And then there was a presence. She couldn’t see him, not at first, her head held in place, pinned like the rest of her beneath the weight that was just shy of unbearable. 

Fitting, that here in the buried her only company was another monster. Maybe this was where they both belonged. A mercy to the world, to rid it of themselves. To lie here side by side, entombed. 

There were bad people in the world – she'd cut her teeth on plenty. Jonathan Sims was not, she didn’t think, one of them. Not yet. (He was a funny little odd-looking man with strange manners and on first sight she had not known what to make of him, had almost hesitated to decide he needed to die. Almost.) He was something else which equally demanded to be hunted. Which demanded it all the more. A monster – a thing that hurt others without bearing them any ill will, without intent. A thing that hurt by existing. A helpless thing that hurt because it was in its nature to destroy. She knew this. Had seen this. Him in her dreams, all eyes. All awful eyes that skinned and scoured and saw clean through to the bone, saw everything and raised not a finger, all annihilating light and merciless sight and damning angelfire. Unblinking. 

But it didn’t matter here. In here there were no dreams. In here he was what he was and she heard it in his voice – scared, small, clinging to his last dirty ragged scrap of hope with mad determination. And she thought, he might save me. If anyone could get out of here, it could be him, and maybe he’ll take me with him. 

Did she deserve to leave? Did it matter, when she knew that no matter what the answer was, she would not have the strength to sentence herself to this particular imprisonment? Not even to rid the world of two more monsters. 

“Daisy,” Jonathan said, his voice a breathless whimper. Something brushed her little finger and she might have flinched had she been able. As it was she could only stare blindly and hold rigid, suck stale dusty air into crushed lungs. 

It was his hand – he wanted to touch her hand. And Daisy forgot about monsters. And the little girl she carried around inside of her (as entombed within her hunt-ruined body as she was in the buried) broke and rattled the bars of her ribcage and strained to reach him. She moved her fingers with a pained gasp and linked them with his and he sighed and made a hitching, choking sound. 

It took hours to turn her head to look at him, and in the perfect darkness she would not have been able to see him at all had his eyes not been such as they were. He was already half-turned toward her and she met his gaze in the dark, could feel the moment it happened. A faint prickle in her mind, the fuzzy static presence of his watching, seeing. Not intrusive, not forcing its way in like the dirt which periodically filled her mouth, just there. There was no light there to glint off his eyes and they emitted no light of their own, and yet she knew they were there, like two hungry sucking magnets, the way a prey animal can detect the gaze of a predator with a sense other than sight, uncanny tingling. 

Outside, she might have bared her teeth at him, and she knew he would have looked down, cowed and apologetic. Here the hunt was quiet and she knew he could no more alter the strange power of his eyes than she had ever been able to silence her own bloodlust. Outside, the distinction would not have mattered. Would only have served to confirm what he was: a monster, something to be gotten rid of. Here it was just him. Here it was him and she was so madly deliriously glad that it was him that for a moment she forgot she couldn’t breathe. 

And then he said something decidedly human. And then he denied everything she had known to be true about the both of them and their monstrousness. And then he told her, “We all get a choice. Even if it doesn’t feel like one.” 

It was the furthest thing from comfort. It was a terrible thought. If true, then – then nothing was anything again, then all her life she’d been wrong, then her black and white world was a fantasy, then there was no getting off the hook, then every second would mean self-denial and sacrifice and perhaps unbearable choice against forces beyond comprehension bent on making her will a string to pluck in a sick melody, then – she didn’t know if she believed him, not yet. But she could tell that he did. At least in that moment, he did. And she placed her faith in his believing. 

He led her through the buried, out of the coffin and into the light and the sound of a dozen tape recorders, their overlapping wash of voices and soft static like the rustling of hundreds of insect wings. 

They looked around as though newly born and then the door opened and there stood Basira, a dark figure wreathed in light. Daisy lurched out of the coffin, tried to climb out and stand, but only flopped uselessly over the side. Jon tried to hold her up, but he was not so steady-legged himself and only slid down beside her when he caught her arm, and there they sat leaning against the coffin, tangled together and staring up at Basira, whose face was a mutiny of emotions she quickly schooled into obedience. For a moment she was blank and stony and Daisy stared up at her with something like reverence, and from her dry cracked lips came the name like a prayer tripping off a sinner’s tongue, “Basira.” 

Basira’s composure slipped and something too raw and naked to name twisted her face. She strode into the room and knelt beside them, arms reaching out to Daisy and then hesitating, so that her hands hovered on Daisy’s dirt-streaked arms, barely touching. “How?” 

Daisy glanced at Jon, who had picked up one of the tape recorders and was frowning at it, a crease on his brow. His hair was so full of dirt she couldn’t make out where it was gray. “Something about a rib,” she mumbled. 

Basira opened her mouth, glanced between the two of them. Jon cast a pleading look at her and while Daisy knew Basira had never been one to give in to pity when there were pressing questions to be answered, she set her jaw and said, her voice firm and steady, “Let’s get you two away from this damn coffin.” 

She wrapped Daisy’s limp arm around her shoulders and began to stand. Daisy pushed up, expecting to rise smoothly, her muscles still retaining memory of their former strength but not the strength itself, evidently, as she rose only half a foot before her legs gave out and she slumped back down. 

“It’s been months, Basira, you might need to – I don’t know if she should go to the hospital or not.” 

“Hospital?” Daisy rasped. “I’m -- I’m fine. Just give me a moment.” 

“You were in a coma for about that long. You woke up just fine,” said Basira. 

Jon frowned. “Well, I think we both agreed that wasn’t exactly normal.” 

“Right. But you’re not the only one who’s got a patron, are you?” 

“No, but--” 

“So you’re saying she won’t heal like you did?” 

“I don’t _know_ , Basira. I don’t -- just to be safe, maybe we should call--” 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Daisy growled, bracing one trembling arm on the side of the coffin as she tried to haul herself up. 

“Please stay still, Daisy, you’re going to hurt yourself. I was only in there for three days and I don’t feel much like standing right now.” 

“That’s all well and good for you,” Daisy said. “You were puny anyway, you can just sit on your arse all day talking to recorders.” She kicked one of the recorders away in a sudden fit of emotions too messy to deal with on their own, so she focused on the anger. Not the helplessness, the grief, the mortifying relief of being outside. The recorder skittered across the floor an infuriatingly short distance from her weak kick. Jon winced and reached out belatedly as if to stop her or grab it before shrinking back, hands knitting together at his chest. 

“I’m going to get Melanie, get – help. You two stay right here. Don’t move. Just – just don’t move,” Basira said, glancing at the two of them as though she could fix them in place with her gaze. There was fear in her eyes as they darted behind the two of them to the still open coffin. She stood and slammed the lid shut before rushing out of the office. The chatter of the recorders once more ate up the silence. 

Jon exhaled shakily and stretched his legs out in front of him, kneading his thighs with one hand, the other still clutching the recorder. Daisy watched his knobby fingers stroking the plastic in what she assumed was a self-soothing tic he probably didn’t realize he was performing. It might have disturbed her, before. Might have seemed another manifestation of whatever awful inhuman nature sat waiting to take him over. Now it was just him. 

She didn’t realize they were sitting practically in each others laps, pressed together from their shoulders all the way down to their legs, until he pressed softly against her. She was too shellshocked to be surprised (hadn’t he always kept a stubborn bubble of personal space, flinched away from contact?) and too fatigued to push him away (she wouldn’t have tolerated his touch either, not before). She realized she didn’t want to. If he left, she would lose herself. The room was too big, the air too light. She would dissolve, she would dissipate, vanish. She pressed back against him and saw the small, tentative smile on his face as he ducked his head, dirt falling from his lowered lashes. 

“Hope she brings some water,” Daisy said. 

“Could go for something a little stronger, myself.” 

It wasn’t very funny, all on its own, but she found herself shaking with laughter that her parched throat and ill-used vocal chords struggled to produce. It was an awful, ragged sound, but she couldn’t seem to stop. He blinked owlishly up at her, filthy and lovely and looking at her with shy uncertainty, as though unsure whether he was being laughed with or at or if she were having a breakdown, and then his smile widened and he started to laugh too, a shaky breathy thing, and then the two of them were sat there on the ground howling and holding each other, laughs giving way to sobs which turned back into laughter again. 

“Jesus Christ, you didn’t mention they’d lost their _minds_.” 

They both looked up at the doorway through tear-blurry eyes to see Basira and Melanie staring at them with mingled horror and concern. 

“What happened?” Basira said. 

“His fault,” Daisy said, trying to point at Jon and managing only to nudge him with a loose fist. “He’s a fucking riot, you know that?” 

Jon grimaced, rubbing at his eyes and struggling to breathe through his laughter. “Am not.” He hiccupped and both of them stopped laughing abruptly. It happened again and Daisy broke out in gasping peals of laughter while he gasped for air and kept laughing helplessly while tears wore clean tracks through the dirt on his face. “It’s not funny,” he moaned, wrapping an arm around his middle. “It _hurts_.” 

“Are you two somehow high?” Melanie said. “Or did something in that damn coffin knock you over the head so hard you’re delirious?” She narrowed her eyes and looked at Basira. “It’s them, isn’t it? You did – make sure? It’s not something else, like they didn’t get replaced, or--” 

“I think they’re just very, very tired.” 

“I’ve seen some disturbing things in my time. Hell, this week alone. But this?” 

“Just help me get them out of here,” Basira said, coming forward and wrapping one of Daisy’s arms around her neck. “Get her other arm.” 

“They’re filthy,” Melanie said, though it was more of a dry observation than a complaint as she took Daisy’s other arm. 

As they lifted Daisy, sudden panic gripped her and she struggled weakly. “Don’t -- where are you – stop.” She twisted her head around to look at Jon, who remained sat on the floor staring up at her. “No,” she said, reaching one arm out to him. 

Jon’s breath hitched. “I-it’s okay, Daisy. We got out, you’re safe now.” 

“I don’t want – to be alone.” 

“We’re not leaving you,” Basira said. “Just getting out of this office is all.” 

“ _No_.” 

“You’re confused, Daisy. Just let us help you,” said Melanie. 

Jon reached up, gripped the edge of his desk, and hauled himself to his feet with a wince and a quickly stifled gasp of pain, several alarming pops accompanying the movement. “All right, I’m -- we’ll all go.” 

Basira looked at him with open concern and confusion and it ripped something in Daisy’s chest to shreds, to see this open shock at her weakness writ large across her partner’s face. “What happened in there? What did they do to her?” 

Her head was spinning. There was too much air in the room and none of it was getting into her lungs. There was a hole in her head and her skull was empty and her head was too light and it was going to topple off her neck. The pressure all around had been relieved too suddenly, and like a diver with the bends her chest was going to burst. All of her splattered all over the room. The pressure without had been relieved but the pressure within was building to breaking. Steam pipe whistling and buckling under the strain. The room was a blur, smears of light and color and sound, the hiss of tape recorders. The groaning of all the weight in the world kneading her into a shape of its own choosing. Her body a crime scene, sight of violence acted out and upon. Her blood hot and sluggish, back of her throat burning with bile. 

Someone was saying her name. Someone was saying don’t know, panic attack, hospital, put her down. Someone had their hand on hers, fingers laced. That was familiar, that was grounding. She clung to that hand, a lifeline. Familiar pattern of scar tissue, smooth in some places and textured in others. She held on. 

Basira sat in a hard plastic chair beside Daisy’s hospital bed. She must have been giving everybody a hard time, because they’d given her something “to calm her down,” and now she was full of fog. A numb, hazy feeling. Not exactly pleasant, but she couldn’t drum up the presence of mind or the energy to fight against it. 

Basira sat very close, head bowed, face set. Daisy watched her thinking and fancied she could see the coiling knot of thoughts twisting in her sharp mind. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Basira said. 

Daisy managed a half-smile. Basira sounded so business-like and brusque, as though she’d asked where they should get takeaway. Daisy knew it wasn’t meant that way. It reminded her of Jon. Basira wasn’t nearly as socially inept, but they both had similar ways of disguising uncomfortable emotions. Jon’s way was to be a prickly, pretentious bastard, while Basira tended towards the safety of pure pragmatism. 

“Not really,” Daisy said. Wasn’t that right? It had been months – things had changed. Six months she’d lain in that coffin. Half a year of her life, gone. Half a year of Basira’s life that she’d missed. What could she be sure of? 

Nothing. 

So maybe not much had changed after all. There hadn’t been any guarantees for a long while. 

Basira nodded. “If you do – just let me know.” 

“What about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Whatever you were doing out here, it was more interesting than what I’ve been up to. Eating dirt and lying still.” 

Basira’s look hardened. “Things have been – well. We don’t have to talk about it right now.” 

“Why not?” 

“You need your rest.” 

“I’m well enough.” 

“You can’t stand without help.” 

Daisy kept herself still and neutral, her voice level. “I’ll get better.” 

“I’m sure you will,” Basira said, but her eyes were looking at something Daisy couldn’t see, and her voice came from far away. 

“I _will_.” 

Basira looked at her, blinked as though clearing fog from her eyes. She nodded and took Daisy’s hand, turned it over to study her palm, tracing the lines on it. It tickled. Daisy held still. Basira yawned. The clock on the wall ticked, the secondhand wearing the night away. Basira yawned again and Daisy forced herself to say, “You should get some rest.” 

Basira shook her head. “Don’t want to leave you alone.” 

Daisy scowled. Misery made her feel weighted down, impossibly heavy. She had nothing to say to that. If Basira left, she wasn’t sure what she’d do – disappear, maybe. 

There came a soft knock on the doorframe and someone nervously cleared their throat. Both women looked up at Jon, who stood hunched in the doorway, the hall light pooling in around him. “I just thought I’d -- how are you doing?” 

“They’re treating her for dehydration. Wanted to keep her overnight, said she can probably be discharged tomorrow. They’ve referred her to a physical therapist, as well.” 

Jon took a faltering half step forward, his voice brightening. “Well, that’s -- that’s good news, isn’t it?” His hand gripped the strap of his shoulder bag. “Which therapist? If you don’t mind me asking, I just – maybe I know them.” He shrugged and laughed, once, quietly. 

“Don’t remember,” Basira said. “I’ve got it down.” 

When she made no move to check, Jon said, “Ah. Good. Probably not the same, anyway. Well. I just thought I’d...see how you’re doing.” 

“Don’t really know how to answer that,” Daisy said. 

Jon nodded. “I understand.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. There was something tense and tightly coiled about him, his gaze sharp and darting, a jittery energy radiating off him. He’d showered and changed into clean clothes but still looked frazzled and disheveled, which was nothing new, really. “I can – go, then, leave you two – I just wanted to see, you know, they wouldn’t let us all crowd around earlier, so I thought – ah, Melanie went home, said she might pop by tomorrow depending on how things are looking. I tried to catch Martin, let him know you’re back, because I thought he’d -- you know,” Jon said, motioning in the air with one hand as though trying to conjure the right words. “But -- busy. I’m sure soon as he catches a break he’ll be by.” 

“Jon. It’s okay,” said Daisy. “You don’t need to micro-manage hospital visits. Besides. Martin and I hardly know each other.” 

“Right.” He shifted his weight, wincing. His knees were shaking. 

“For Christ’s sake,” Daisy said, though there was no venom in her words. “Sit down, would you? Making me nervous just looking at you hovering there like that.” 

Jon exhaled. “Are you sure? I can leave. Earlier, it seemed like you wanted me to – but if not, I can--” 

“Sit. Down.” 

“Okay,” he said in a relieved rush, and sank clumsily into the other chair on the side of the bed opposite Basira. 

“Are you okay?” said Basira. There was something wary and calculating in the way she said it as she studied him. 

“Me? Fine, fine. You know, tired. The usual.” 

“Maybe you should go home and get some sleep then,” Basira said. 

“I will.” 

“Read a statement lately?” 

Jon looked down. “Why do you ask?” 

“Just checking. You’re jumpy. Can’t tell if that means you have or you haven’t.” 

“Right. It’s not as though there might occasionally be other things for me to be ‘jumpy’ about than how long it’s been since I read a statement.” 

“Don’t be petulant.” 

“Then don’t -- fine. Sorry, that’s -- fine,” Jon said, running a hand through his hair, stopping when his fingers met a tangle. His face softened. “I just thought you might like some rest yourself, Basira,” he said quietly. “And if you do, I will stay here until you get back. That’s all.” 

“You don’t have to...” Daisy broke off with a frustrated sigh, glaring at the hospital bed sheets. 

“No, we don’t. We want to,” Basira said. 

“It’s really very normal, Daisy, to not want to be – I mean, after that, to want – it's good, I think, that you want people around.” 

“Not used to feeling like a burden,” she said. 

“You aren’t a burden,” Basira said, and what her voice lacked in warmth she made up for with certainty. “That’s not how this works.” 

Daisy twisted her hands in the sheets. “What if something happens. Something comes after us, and I’m -- like this.” 

“We’ll deal with that when we have to. And Daisy, you’re not...I know you. Don’t go thinking you’re not good for anything just because you’re not exactly in fighting shape right now. Nobody’s just expendable like that. You have much more to offer than muscle, and anyway, this isn’t the force. It’s not all about burning yourself at both ends just to prove you’re worth something. You already are, just by being here. So...let yourself rest, and get well.” 

Daisy glanced at Basira, then down. Basira slid her hand forward and rested it on Daisy’s and for a long quiet moment, Daisy studied their interlaced fingers. 

Jon cleared his throat and stood, unfolding his bony body from the hard chair like a painful, arthritic accordion. “I’ll -- let you two have some privacy.” 

Basira rolled her eyes. “How do you manage to make the slightest thing sound awkward?” she murmured. 

“It’s a gift,” he said, all stuffy self-protection. He looked at Daisy. “Take care, Daisy. Get some rest.” 

“You too, Sims.” 

He gave her a thin-lipped smile and hoisted his bag over his shoulder, nodded to Basira. “Really, if you do want to go home and take a rest, or want me to bring you something, please, just ask. You know how to reach me.” 

“Thanks, Jon. Hey. You go home, all right? Not back to the archives. You need rest, too. Don’t know what we might be up against here soon, can’t have you nodding off on your feet.” 

“You make it sound like I’m a battery, or something.” 

“I’m serious. Go _home_. Sleep.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and left the room, closing the door quietly and carefully behind him. 

Basira sighed. “How much you want to bet we find him at his desk tomorrow, drooling on a pile of statements?” 

“Does he even have anywhere else to go anymore?” 

“I -- I guess I don’t really know.” 

Daisy squeezed Basira’s hand lightly with what little strength she could muster. For a moment they were quiet, and then Daisy began to speak, voice low and halting. “There were other people. In the coffin. I didn’t see anyone, or get near them – just heard voices. In the beginning, I heard them. But then, after a while – I don’t know if it just got too close in there to hear anymore, or if we got further from each other. There came a point where I – I couldn’t move anymore. Even if I’d wanted to. There was just nowhere to go. And I couldn’t hear anyone at all. It was almost better that way. You could almost think it might be – peaceful. If you could lie still and just...drift off, dreaming. But no. It wouldn’t let you. There was nothing, Basira. Nothing to fight, no way to make it hurt like it was hurting me. You just had to take it. I haven’t felt helpless in...a long time. I realized in there that everything I’ve done, I’ve...I’ve done bad things. Some really bad things, and given up a lot, all to not feel helpless. And where did it get me? It didn’t save me. It didn’t make me strong. All of it gone, stripped away, just like that, and I saw how worthless and stupid it had all been, all of it, all of the – the blood, the pain, the killing. The anger. Anger was nothing in that place. I was nothing. Or at least, I wished I was. Worse than nothing, I was completely powerless. I always thought that Sims was weak, you know? I thought a lot of people were weak. But it took him to get me out of there. In there, it was – weak or strong, it didn’t mean anything, not when you’re alone, really alone like that, and unable to move, or even breathe. I needed someone. I _hate_ needing – except for you. Except for my partner.” 

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Basira whispered, squeezing Daisy’s hand, her other hand going up to smooth down Daisy’s hair. Daisy held very still and allowed the soft touches. The gentleness felt dangerous, more dangerous than violence had felt in a long while. It made her vulnerable, it was against her very being – but she held still and clung to the feeling anyway, because she wanted to. Because it was important. 

“Isaac was in there. My – my partner.” 

“I remember.” 

“He was in there,” she said, swallowing a lump in her throat. “He -- he still is. He’s been there so long now, so, so long, and – when will it ever stop? If somebody doesn’t -- but I _can’t_. Just thinking about it, I – I can’t, I can’t, I _won’t_ go back.” 

Basira made a soothing shushing noise, kept stroking Daisy’s hair. “Nobody is asking you to.” 

“But he – all of them – god, Basira, to be trapped in there, and never – and that’s just one coffin, how many other fucking things like that are out there? Are sitting in storage at the damn institute, right now?” 

“I think it’s best not to think about it.” 

“How can we _not_?” 

“Maybe we’ll find a way. We’ll keep our eyes open, see if anything – we won’t give up on them. But what Jon did – that's not the way, Daisy.” 

“He thinks he deserves it. All of it. Because of what he thinks he’s becoming, he thinks it doesn’t matter, how badly he’s hurt. Did you ask him to go into the coffin?” 

“What? No, Daisy. I had no idea he was going to--” 

“Really?” 

Basira paused, her hand stilling on Daisy’s hair, and Daisy held her breath, a cowardly, pathetic part of her wishing she’d held her tongue, if only to keep Basira close and appeased. Then Basira resumed her gentle stroking. “I was away. I think – I suspect that might have been on purpose. I don’t know. Not on Jon’s part – he's not pulling any strings here, not so far as I can tell. No. Elias, maybe. Or something else. No, I didn’t ask him to. I told him not to go in. Melanie, on the other hand...yes, I think she had a hand in helping him. But Jon makes his own decisions.” 

“You believe that, don’t you? That we have a choice?” 

“Y...yes. I – yes.” 

“I want to make a choice, Basira.” 

“Oh?” 

“I don’t...I can’t keep on like I was, before the coffin. I won’t...still be me, for very long if I do, I don’t think. The hunt, it...I don’t want to give myself to it. Lose myself in it. I could. It would be...so, so easy. And maybe it would be better, for all of you – I'd be strong again, I could protect you. But I wouldn’t...be me.” 

Basira made a soft sound then and leaned in closer, holding Daisy as best she could, awkward as it was with the odd angle and the hospital bed and the IV line in the way. “Are you sure?” she whispered. 

“As sure as I can be. Yes.” 

“Then -- then I’ll do whatever I can.” 

“Thank you, Basira.” 

“Of course. Of course.” 

“Before, I – I didn’t think of it as a choice, so much. Jon – he said it was. In the coffin.” 

“He did?” 

“Yes. He said it was, even if it didn’t feel like one.” 

“Oh.” 

“You have a choice, too. And so does he. I wish – I want to – I just have this feeling that by stepping back, I’m making that choice harder for the rest of you. I know he’ll think he has to – has to keep going. Keep becoming the Archivist. He’s all talk, you know – he can say a thing like that and think it applies to everyone but himself. And you. You have a bit of that too. Not self-destructive like him, not at all, just – just a momentum. But maybe you don’t have to keep – keep playing whatever game you’re playing. What is it you’re doing, Basira? It’s that Elias prick, isn’t it? What’s he got you doing, what’s he convinced you of?” 

“I’m not like Jon, Daisy. I’m not just throwing myself into danger without any clue why or what for. You just have to trust me for now.” 

“I do.” 

Basira leaned down and pressed her lips to Daisy’s forehead, soft and firm pressure, warm and gentle. Daisy let out a shaky breath and let herself be held. Perhaps she was a coward after all, for allowing herself to be appeased so easily, for not pushing out of fear she might lose even this, what little was left in all the world of things worth living for. She had been a hunter, yes, but she had always been a scavenger, too. Selfish and possessive of scraps. So she said nothing and sat very still and let herself be held. 

Daisy hesitated for a moment outside Jon’s door. She couldn’t make out his semi-muffled voice rising and falling the way she could when he was reading statements, so she knocked once and let herself in. 

He was sat at his desk, the surface of which was a scattered mess of papers, mugs, and at least two whirring tape recorders she noticed at once. He lowered the papers he was holding and blinked up at her, quickly smoothing over a vexed crease between his brows. She knew at once she had interrupted him. 

“Hello, Daisy. What can I – can I do something for you?” 

“Yeah. Was just wondering if I could hang out in here for a bit.” 

“Oh.” 

“Just got quiet out there, is all. Melanie’s gone to--” 

“Therapy, right.” 

Daisy raised a brow and Jon winced, tapped the papers on his desk to straighten them, smoothing his finger down the edges to ensure they were aligned. “Sorry. I really don’t mean to—” 

“It’s fine. That’s right. And Basira’s...busy with something. So. Mind if I hang out in here?” 

“No, of course not, I was just—” he swallowed, and she tried not to watch too closely the way his throat bobbed, how it stretched the scar where she’d once made to slit his neck. “Just about to read a statement. But it...can wait?” 

His reluctance was obvious, but that he’d offered at all took her aback. It was almost considerate. Not a trait she tended to associate with him. 

“No, go ahead.” 

His shoulders sagged a bit with relief, but he tried to keep his expression neutral. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah. I just want a little company, I don’t need you to entertain me. Just pretend I’m not here.” 

“It’s just – I know some people don’t like to listen. The statements, they can be – I don’t want to – make you uncomfortable.” 

“Statements don’t bother me. Nothing in there more gruesome than anything I’ve seen. And you won’t make me uncomfortable.” 

“Ah. Okay then,” he said, looking down at the papers, dark eyes locking onto the page. 

“Even if you do start to salivate when you hear those recorders click on.” 

Jon looked up at her, stricken. “I _what_?” 

“Like Pavlov’s dog.” 

“I do no such – how would you even know—” 

“Kidding, Sims. That was a little joke. You just looked a little peckish was all.” 

Jon gave her a pained look that almost made her pity him. Almost. Instead she just cracked a small grin. “That’s not funny,” he grumbled. 

“I’m only teasing.” 

“I don’t...get much teasing these days.” 

“No, I guess you don’t.” 

He looked small and lost for a moment, sitting in that big chair behind the huge cluttered desk. Then he tapped the papers against the desk again and checked the nearest recorder. Unnecessary, as far as she could tell. Force of habit, probably. Or maybe he liked to pretend it might not already be running, waiting for him to feed it something awful. “Right. Would you like a chair?” 

“No, I’ll stand. Stretch my legs.” 

He nodded and cleared his throat, and then without further preamble, began the statement. 

Daisy leaned her head back against the wall and looked at the drab ceiling tiles, letting Jon’s voice wash over her without focusing on the words. His voice was not soothing on its own except for the fact that it had been the one to call out to her in the darkness, the one to guide her back into the world. He was familiar now. And she was fond of the familiar. A weakness, maybe. But hardly chief among her weaknesses, frail as she was, so she let herself indulge in it. 

After a few minutes of politely avoiding staring at him, she began to watch him as he read. He was caught up in the statement and didn’t notice her gaze, might have forgotten he had an audience entirely, judging by how enthralled he was. He wasn’t putting on a voice, exactly, but it was definitely something – some slight alteration that still managed to convey the character of the statement giver. He was more animated when he read than she’d have guessed. Not that she’d ever thought about it before. But if she had, she might have imagined him sitting still and straight-backed in his chair, a look of aloof detachment if not outright judgement on his face. Instead his face was alive with expressions mirroring the reactions of the statement giver, his hands gesticulating now and then for further emphasis. It was the furthest thing from dignified. She found herself grinning again. 

Daisy leaned her head back and closed her eyes, and before long she opened them again as Jon said, “Statement ends.” She watched him blink and lick his lips, and she supposed that this might be the part that could, conceivably, make a bystander uncomfortable. Not that she was a great judge of what might discomfit the average person. It was just that Jon was blinking a haze from his eyes with an expression that was somehow both pensive and sated, but still wanting. 

“What do you make of that then?” he asked, looking at her, all himself again, or at least as much himself as he ever was, a crease between his brows. 

“Don’t know. Why?” 

“Oh, well, I just thought...never mind.” 

"You think it's got to do with the hunt?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure."

“Hm. Don’t know. Could be. But it could be a few other things, too. I’m not the one with the encyclopedia for a brain.” 

Jon gave a dry snort of laughter. “If only that was – but no, I’m not sure either. More questions than answers, as always. I should stop expecting otherwise, really, I have only myself to blame for any disappointment, but – well.” 

“But it still...feels good?” 

“Sorry?” 

“Reading statements.” 

“I don’t know if _good_ is how I’d describe it – frustrating, maybe? It’s just this endless looping of leads and dead-ends.” 

“Never mind. I was just thinking – I guess I shouldn’t compare them. The eye, the hunt.” 

“Oh. I didn’t realize we were talking about – well.” 

“I’m not surprised. Can’t imagine how that would give anybody, you know, sort of a high. Just reading.” 

“It’s...well.” He cleared his throat and scratched his neck. His discomfort was obvious, but she wasn’t about to give him an out just yet. “It can be...different, when it’s...when I’m asking someone, getting it...directly. Then I suppose you could maybe compare it more...accurately, as a sort of...rush. In a way, it still – it's probably nothing like hunting. I imagine the adrenaline alone must be – but. It’s sort of like scratching a terrible itch that never really goes away? Like...like a tic, in a way, I guess, I mean, you can _try_ and stop it, but you’re only ever putting it off, it’s going to just keep getting worse until the compulsion is overpowering, but then – that's not exactly fair, is it? No, I don’t think I like that comparison, it’s...” He broke off with a self-conscious laugh. “Can you tell I’m trying very hard _not_ to compare it to hunger? I'm afraid that might just be the best I’ve got by way of analogies, though. Or – did you ever smoke, by any chance? That might be — but I hardly like the implications of that, do I,” he muttered. 

“It’s okay. Not everything is like something else.” 

“Oh. I – suppose not,” he said, sounding unsure. 

Daisy pushed off the wall and stretched. “Come on. When was the last time you got out of here for a little while, did something other than work? Basira and I are grabbing drinks. You should come.” 

“Oh. Oh, no, I – really? I, ah...I do have a lot of – I don’t know.” 

“It’s just drinks, Jon.” 

He exhaled. “Okay. Let me just get my coat.” 

Daisy watched him rise from his chair with a wince, packing papers haphazardly into his bag. She was surprised he’d agreed. Pleased, but surprised. She’d thought she’d have to fight harder than that, and in truth, she hadn’t felt much like fighting, might have just let him go on hunching over his desk all night. But then – maybe it had been a while since anybody had asked him to come out. 

They walked towards the front entrance together, shoulders brushing amiably now and then. The receptionist had gone home already and the halls were empty. “Basira, she – she's okay with me tagging along, right? I mean, she knows?” Jon said as they pushed open the doors, as though it had just occurred to him. 

“Quit worrying,” Daisy sighed, taking the steps carefully and ignoring how Jon hovered at her shoulder. He could be as bad as Martin, honestly. Worse, because he was so emotionally stunted and socially inept that his fussing could come off as plain insulting rather than just mildly annoying. 

Basira greeted them at the bottom of the steps, linking her arm with Daisy and giving Jon a guarded once-over. “Headed home early today, Jon?” 

“Oh. Of course,” he said, glancing at Daisy before sidestepping and looking around, as though unsure of which direction to make his escape in. “Turning in early, that’s right -- be seeing you.” 

Daisy sighed and hooked one finger around the strap of his bag. Even weak as she was, it didn’t take much effort to tug him closer. “Don’t be stupid,” she muttered. “He said he’d join us for drinks.” 

Basira raised a brow and quirked her lips. “Really now?” 

Jon glanced back up at the institute. “I really should probably leave you to it.” 

“Not at all,” Basira said. “You’re welcome. I’m just dying to know what Daisy said to get you out of that office, is all.” 

“Wasn’t hard,” Daisy said, as they began walking, Basira slowing her natural quick pace to accommodate Daisy’s easily fatigued legs. Jon walked along at her other side, shoulders hunched, clutching the strap of his bag and alternating between staring holes in the pavement and casting cagey glances around at random passerby. 

“God. I hope I’m not intruding on anything,” Jon muttered. “I really _can_ just go back, no hard feelings.” 

“Jon. If you want to go back, nobody’s stopping you. But the only reason I’m going to tell you to do so is if you keep making excuses and acting like you’re about to have a heart attack. Otherwise, you’re all good,” Basira said. 

“Right. Sorry. Listen to me, apologizing, I sound like – but you’re right. So. Do you two...do this often?” 

“When we’re not in the middle of working to avert apocalyptic rituals, you mean?” 

“Right,” he muttered. 

“It can be tough to make the time. But everybody needs a break now and then, let off a little steam. Otherwise you’d just lose it,” Basira said. “So...try not to bring up work tonight, yeah? Or else you’ll have me thinking about it all night.” 

“Yes, of course. No work talk. Got it. Er. Nice...weather?” 

“Was that a joke, or your honest best effort at friendly conversation?” Basira said. 

Jon huffed indignantly, his tone waspish when he replied. “I’m not exactly bursting with non-work related conversation topics right now, in case you hadn’t noticed.” 

“Oh, I’ve noticed, believe me.” 

“It’s not like you’ve ever been much for idle chit-chat yourself, you know.” 

“Hm. Not that _you_ know of.” 

“Well, go ahead. _Enlighten_ me, Basira.” 

“There he is – see, soon as you stop moping, there’s that snotty bastard with the stick up his arse back again. Touching, really.” 

“I guess some things never change.” 

“I guess not.” 

“I’m still waiting for proof of your conversational prowess,” Jon said, one hand twirling in the air in front of him, his voice tight and controlled, consonants snapping with crisp precision, and there’s almost relish in his tone, as though he was warming up to a once comfortable pattern having fallen by the wayside, and Daisy wondered for the first time what it was like in the institute between people she had either never met or never known well, before everything started to go wrong. Had they all gone out for drinks then, before the terror? 

“You can be such a dick, you know that? Is that how you get your kicks, or can you just not help yourself?” 

“You started this. I hardly have a monopoly on – on dickishness.” 

Daisy snorted and Basira barked out a laugh. “I’m not going to make it through tonight, am I? Oh, say it again, would you? We’re not even _drinking_ yet.” 

Jon fixed her with a prim glare, face dark with a blush, though there was something tugging the corners of his mouth up. He opened his mouth to reply, no doubt with something biting, but then he faltered, watching the two of them smile and laugh, hesitantly, carefully, as though even this little momentary happiness was a stolen thing that could be taken. And he let it pass. 

Daisy never let herself get drunk. She’d done so only once and had since then abided her limits. She knew how to be satisfied maintaining a mild buzz and resisting going any further, so she sipped her beer slowly. Basira had never been much of a heavy drinker either, but she had no reservations about getting tipsy, and became pleasantly chatty when she did so — not like some of the maudlin or aggressive drunks Daisy had known on the force. Pleasant might not have been what those who crossed her would call it — maybe _acerbic wit_ was more accurate — but it was pleasant chattiness to Daisy. 

They found a corner booth to commandeer and the two women sat across from Jon, who scanned the pub once they sat down, particularly eyeing a couple of men playing pool across the room. He relaxed somewhat after a few minutes once they all had their ale, for the most part keeping his attention on their little table. 

“So,” he said, fidgeting with a napkin, “what _do_ people talk about these days outside of work?” 

Basira scoffed. “Good question.” 

“Don’t always have to be talking,” Daisy said. 

“What, you mean you just sit here in silence?” Jon said. 

Basira shrugged. “Can’t force good conversation.” 

He squirmed in his seat, tearing the napkin at even intervals to create a fringe down its length. “That sounds...uncomfortable.” 

“Only if you make it be,” Basira said. 

Jon muttered something inaudible in reply, and Basira scowled. “What was that?” 

“Nothing.” 

“I hate it when you do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“ _That_. Mumble something nasty and act like you didn’t say anything.” 

“If you didn’t hear me, what makes you think it was something nasty?” 

“Well, wasn’t it?” 

“No.” 

“Then why—” 

“Just a bad habit, I suppose.” 

“And _that_. Cutting me off.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“And _that_ , most of all. The snide non-apology. That one _really_ pisses me off.” 

Jon scowled down at the napkin. “If my mere presence is so intolerable to you, then you should have just let us go our separate ways back at the institute, like I _tried_ to do, so that _this_ wouldn’t happen.” 

“Lighten up, will you? You can be real dramatic, you know that?” 

“Well what do you want me to do, sit here and nod along while you – pick at me?” 

“I’m not picking on you, I’m just saying.” 

“There’s a reason I don’t do – this.” 

“What, go out? Try to hold normal human conversation?” 

Jon winced, tried to hide it by glaring at the greasy tabletop. “Are you trying to get under my skin, or is this _your_ idea of pleasant conversation?” 

“Maybe. You just make it so easy, is all.” 

“Quiet, both of you,” Daisy growled. “Enough bickering.” 

“Sorry,” Basira said, not sounding like she meant it much. For a few moments they sat in silence. It was companionable and pleasant enough to Daisy, but the longer it wore on, the twitchier Jon looked. He took several gulps of his drink and dabbed his finger in the ring of water left by a glass on the table, drawing swirls. Basira watched the billiards game going on in the corner. 

“So, Daisy,” said Jon, clearing his throat. “How’s therapy?” 

Daisy shrugged. “Frustrating. Awful. Slow.” 

“There’s no rushing recovery, healing happens at its own pace,” he mumbled, still swirling the water around with his fingertips. 

Basira snorted. “What are you, a motivational poster?” 

“It might have been, actually. Don’t remember exactly where it came from.” 

“You said you thought you might know her. The PT,” Daisy said. 

“Oh. Right. I was really just – looking for something to say, I didn’t really think I would. But it’s a small world, you never know.” 

“Why?” 

“Why...what?” 

“Might you have known her.” 

“Oh. Well, we had to do some therapy after Prentiss. We – Tim and I, I mean. You both missed that, thankfully,” he said, with a dry laugh. “It was, ah. Well. You can imagine.” 

“Worms, right?” Basira said. 

Jon nodded once, sharply. “I guess you were there, at the end.” 

“You and Tim. That’s why you matched,” Daisy said. 

“Pardon?” 

She raised one finger and traced a small circle on her own cheek. “Scars.” 

“Oh. Yes. But he – how'd you put it – made them work?” 

Basira frowned, then seemed to place what he was talking about. “Right, I did say that.” 

“That was when he thought we were – you know.” 

“Oh, god, yeah.” 

“What?” said Daisy. 

Basira sighed. “When I first started bringing him tapes, Tim made some dumb comment about thinking we were – seeing each other, or something.” 

Daisy snorted. “Seriously?” 

“That was our Tim. Always on the cutting edge of humor and office gossip,” Jon muttered, his voice bitter but a fond smile tugging at his lips. It faded quickly. 

“He took me aside, next time I came in, and apologized, actually. Said he hadn’t meant to make me uncomfortable, he just couldn’t resist a golden opportunity to – how'd he put it – give you hell?” 

“That’s -- not surprising. I know we said we’d play along, at the time, for secrecy’s sake, but honestly, that’s...what I figured it was.” 

“Really?” 

“Knowing Tim? Yes. And, I mean, I just think it’s pretty obvious we wouldn’t -- I mean – it was just a little ridiculous, you know.” 

“I can’t tell if I’m being insulted or not,” Basira said, bemused. “It was so ridiculous we might be seeing each other that you just assumed it was your employee giving you shit?” 

“Well -- yes.” 

Basira regarded him with detached, impersonal curiosity. “Did I hurt your feelings, when I said that thing about the scars?” 

“Did you – what? Hurt my feelings? No. What?” 

“At the time, I remember wondering if that was a little harsh. Keep in mind I didn’t _know_ you so well back then. But you didn’t seem to think anything of it.” 

“Well, I didn’t. So, no worries,” Jon said, waving a hand dismissively. “Aside from, you know, the pain and all, it didn’t really affect me like I suspected it had Tim. Not that he was overtly vain, exactly, just, you know. So if anything I think I was just glad to hear it, for his sake.” 

“Hear...what?” 

“Well. He always did have such luck with his own way of getting information. And he seemed to enjoy himself. It was...useful.” 

“You mean flirting?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hm. Yeah, I don’t expect it really slowed him down at all, really. It’s all about the attitude, you know. How you carry yourself. It wasn’t that they looked any different, really.” 

Jon fidgeted with the napkin, folding and unfolding it. “Can we – talk about something else?” 

“Oh. Of course.” 

Jon’s gaze slid around the room and settled on a man sitting by himself, staring into his drink. His lips parted and he said, “That man there. His mistress died two weeks ago. Heart attack, unexpected, she was only thirty-one. It’s difficult to mourn someone you never should have loved in the first place, especially while hiding it from your wife. She only began to suspect he was having an affair once it ended. He tells her he stays at work late so that he can be alone, walk, drink, grieve. That’s irony, isn’t it?” he said, blinking and refocusing on Basira. 

“That’s...disturbing and a definite invasion of privacy, is what it is, Jon.” 

“Right. Sorry. Can’t help--” 

“Maybe you can’t help knowing it, but you can keep it to yourself, can’t you?” 

“Oh. Of course. I’m sorry. You...didn’t want to know that.” 

“Who would?” 

“Right. It’s just – it always seems interesting, for just a second at least, to me, suddenly knowing something where before there was nothing. I forget that – of course it’s not, not really.” 

“It must be hell at the movies,” Daisy said. “Or reading.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Doesn’t it ever spoil the ending?” 

“Oh,” Jon said, and laughed, the sound a bit forced but amused all the same. “That...hasn’t been a problem. In fact, I don’t think it’s much interested in fictional things.” 

“That’s something, at least.” 

“Yes. It’s the little consolations in life that make it all so worth it.” 

Daisy cracked a grin and he smiled sheepishly back at her, as though equally gratified and uncertain about being the cause of her amusement. 

It should not, probably, have surprised Daisy that Jon was a lightweight. It was a good thing, she supposed – the last thing he or any of them needed was to get too attached to drink, and if his tolerance was any indication, he was not. As they left the pub, Basira’s cheeks were flushed and her laughter free, but her legs still steady as she hooked her arm through Daisy’s and helped her down the step. Jon stepped down gingerly behind them, face flushed and his gaze both fever-bright and unfocused. Or at least less focused than usual, which given his typical intensity, was not necessarily so disconcerting. He followed along behind them, watching his feet as though he might trip on thin air, and rummaged in his coat pockets. 

“What are you doing?” Basira said, turning around at the sound of a lighter flicking. 

Jon cupped the flame with one hand and lit the tip of the cigarette in his mouth. “What’s it look like?” 

“You know, everyone keeps mentioning you quit, but I’m not seeing it.” 

“I _did_. I just – never want it as much as I do when I’ve been drinking. They go together.” 

“Ah. So you’ve quit except for when you really feel like a smoke. Sounds right.” 

“Just let me have this in peace. Jesus. It’s like you care about my health or something all of a sudden.” 

Basira rolled her eyes. “Those things’ll stain your teeth.” 

“Like I give a goddamn,” he muttered. 

Daisy laughed and Basira tugged her fondly closer. There was a cool breeze stirring the muggy late-night air and brushing her hair back from her face. There was air and space and even in the night, the lights of cars and streetlamps and storefronts, the lights in all the windows where people were still awake. Her legs ached, she was ready to fall into bed and straight to sleep. She was tired and sore and weak and the blood was quiet in her ears and she never had to hunt again. She was not so foolish as to think that she deserved this – but she was alive and selfish enough to have it anyway. For however long it lasted. She was not foolish enough to think it would be for long, but while it was, she would sink her teeth in and hold on. 


End file.
